Dripping Red
by tinuvielll
Summary: For Natasha Romanoff, or the Black Widow, taking someone's life never caused a moment of unrest as long as she received compensation. Until one night, not killing someone is all that she's consumed with. Her first encounter with another assassin known as Hawkeye is the first of many meetings that will change her life forever.


She sat still, waiting, listening; heart beating at a steady pace. From the fifteenth floor, she could see the entire city. Lights; thousands of lights filled the sky from hundreds of buildings that stood as tall as the one she was in. Her building, however, was unoccupied, save for the few warm bodies on the floor below her.

Muffled conversation seeped up through the thin carpet; two men complaining about another. Somewhere else, the labored breaths of a man and a woman otherwise engaged, accompanied by soft moans. In another room, a man was cleaning his weapon. Five warm bodies. Five people whose lives were about to end.

She moved slowly, precisely; _thinking about every breath, sure to inhale and exhale in time with each step._ The stairs that led to her destination were concrete; the lights were dim and concentrated on certain areas of the occupied floor. Crouching low, she pressed her back to the wall near the doorway that led inside. She secured her knives on the inside of both of her forearms. _Inhale_, _1, 2, 3…_and stepped into the doorway where the men who were complaining turned their gazes to her. Before their brains could process what was happening, her arms flew out towards them, followed by her knives which penetrated their throats. _Gurgle, thud. _They hit the floor.

Exhaling, she crawled to the men's bodies. A strand of short, red hair fell in front of her face. _Leave it alone_, she thought; sure to not disturb the scene she'd just created. A masterpiece of lifeless bodies and blood splattered strategically across the floor. A shadow outside the blind-less window caught her eye. She slithered into the shade cast by the wall. Her breathing stopped as her pulse ran away with her. _Just a bird. _

She felt herself floating into the next room, still crouched. The darkness engulfed the room. The labored breaths were close. She slipped through the door, ajar – low, and lethal. The man's back was to the door as he kneeled on the bed, grunting as he proceeded to thrust himself into the woman from behind, whimpering. He whispered for her to shut her mouth. She buried her face in the pillow. The room reeked of sex and alcohol. _Too easy. _

Floating through the room with ease. Vague memories flashed in her mind: _a young version of herself, gliding in the same manner, but to a sound much sweeter. _Bach_. A Russian beauty, skating across the dance floor. _She forced the memory down as she clamped her left hand on the man's mouth and pulled him into her while she slid the blade swiftly across his neck then moved aside, allowing him to fall to the floor. The woman's oblivion was shattered when she felt her head being yanked back by her hair.

"Oi! Dave, take it easy…" she slurred in a lazy British accent.

The woman felt her head being whipped around to face her assailant. Her eyes adjusted and grew wide with fear. The woman gasped but it was cut short when her neck snapped like a twig. Her body went limp and hit the bed. _One more to go. _

With perfect grace, she moved from the room, still low and silent as ever, through a long hallway where her last target resided. The door, opened only halfway, revealed the man who was cleaning his weapon: a .357 Colt Python. The man sat on a simple couch as he meticulously turned the weapon in his hands, examining its every detail. He reached over to a small table that sat on the end of the couch closest to the door and picked up a box of ammo. A small lamp sat on the table, illuminating only the area he occupied.

While his eyes stayed fixed on his revolver, she slipped into the room, hugging the wall where the darkness lived and inched slowly until she was positioned directly in front him. A halo of yellow light fell on the man's face. She watched him carefully. _This has to be clean. _His face consisted of wrinkles and stubble. A knit brow revealed just how hard he was focusing on his gun.

Slowly rising from her crouched position, she pressed her back against the wall preparing to lunge at him with her knife at the ready. Before she could move, he let out a long, exasperated sigh as he began to load the revolver. Her limbs were frozen in place and her breathing came to a near halt. _Breathe. _She allowed herself to inhale slowly, waiting for the stroke to exhale, when the man opened his mouth to speak.

"So…here we are." His voice was deep and raspy laced with the same lazy accent the woman had. Years of smoking and drinking had ripped his esophagus to shreds. He remained fixed on the Colt as his hands worked slowly to load each round gently. _Relax. Relax! _That reminder was an every day struggle in the '12 step' program she knew she'd never finish as an assassin. It was more than a lifestyle and if at any point she felt herself actually relax, it meant she'd be dead in the moments to follow. But death was not upon her. Something felt wrong about the scene. She knew her advantages and she was certain she'd capitalized on them flawlessly.

"Are ya just gonna stand there or are we gonna get on with it?" he asked looking over his shoulder into the dark behind him. She strained her eyes, but couldn't make out what her target was referring to. _It's a setup. _

"I'm just waiting for you to make the first stupid move," replied another voice; deep but clear…and close.

"Well, you'd be waitin' a while, boy."

"Oh, I doubt that very much."

"We'll see…" he smirked as he shot up from the couch, gun in hand, turning to face the voice that taunted him. Before he could find his feet, an arrow pierced the target's right temple and burst through the left side of his head. The blood splattered around the room. She ducked as the arrowhead detached itself and continued to fly into the wall in her direction. When she heard the impact, she stood slowly to examine the device that lodged itself in the wall. A small red light began to blink at a rapid pace accompanied by a beeping sound that signaled it was time to leave.

"Oh, no!" she whispered aloud, indifferent if she was heard or not.

Keeping low, she bolted for the door. Just as she reached the threshold, the arrowhead exploded. The heated impact forced her into the wall outside the remnants of the room she'd just exited. She was hurt, but she needed to move. Her body shot up as her mind assessed any injuries she might have sustained. Once her feet were planted on the ground, she felt her entire body being pummeled down with incredible force. Her face hit the carpeted floor as her attacker struggled to get a hold of her arms from behind.

He dug his knee into her back. With all the force her body would allow, she lifted her right leg behind her until it made contact with his back, shoving him off of her. Losing his balance, he stumbled forward. In the seconds it took for him to lose his legs, she found hers. Agility was her friend.

The two killers stood face to face. The darkness around them consumed his features. Another explosion rang out from behind her. Taking advantage of the distraction, she turned on her heels and bolted for a door at the opposite end of the hallway, hoping it'd lead back to the roof. Bursting through the door, she found a stairwell leading down. _Damn it! _Before she could step through the door, her body was being yanked away from her destination.

They fell on their backs as he wrapped his arms around her. His hold on her was like steel. She snapped her head back, making contact with his face. She rolled backwards off him into a crouching position. He scrambled up to face her. She introduced his face to her right foot with a spin kick. He stumbled but blocked her various blows as she closed in on him against the wall. She caught him with a right cross but he shook it off and slammed his right foot on her left foot. He dipped his shoulder and rammed into her chest. With nothing to hold onto, her whole body hit the floor, shoulders first. She felt the wind being knocked out of her. Scrambling was no use. He had her.

In one swift motion, he slipped one of her own knives out from its hiding place on her forearm and held it to her throat. He knelt beside her and pinned her arms down against her body. Waiting for her absorb the situation, he held her down tightly making sure she had nowhere to go. Panic began to register in every part of her body. He was so strong. She tried to sit up but he pushed her right shoulder down with his left knee. She felt his face getting closer to her but she refused to look at him. She hated being tied down, restricted. This was not how she pictured going out; by a single man. _Just one. _

"Natasha…" he whispered. The same voice that threatened the last victim hit the air with a deep, silky grace. Her eyes shot up to meet his. They were not hostile in any way. But she was not to be taken as a fool. She tried to move again but he pressed down on her. His eyes, his entire demeanor did not emulate his actions. He almost looked sorry as he held her on the ground. Anger boiled up inside of her. She was not to be pitied.

"Fuck you," she spat.

"Natasha…"

"Stop it. If you're going to kill me, you need to do it quickly before…"

"Before what?" he shot back. "You're done. And there's no one coming for you. The disadvantages of working alone, I guess." He was mocking her and that pissed her off even more. "The Black Widow…finally meets her end, I think. You won't be the one they fear anymore."

She looked up at him and spat in his face. His expression finally caught up with his actions as he punched her face with the hand that held down her arms. He lifted the hand holding the knife. Her eyes grew wide. If he was anything like her, he wouldn't hesitate. She needed to act. But it was too late. Just as he brought the weapon down on her chest, Natasha shot up from the bed with a knife in her hand; the same knife he used.

Panting as if she'd been running for miles, she placed the knife on the nightstand on her left and wiped the sweat from her brow. She lifted the oversized t-shirt she wore to bed to reveal her bare chest. Running her fingers along the area she thought was damaged, she let out a sigh of relief. There was nothing there. Simple, flawless skin. She allowed the shirt fall and looked to her right. There lay the man in her dream. _Or was it a memory?_

"Nat?" he whispered as he rubbed his blue eyes. He looked up at her, taking in the sight of her; short, red hair completely disheveled from sleep, or lack thereof; bright green eyes with deep thought swimming behind them; her porcelain face, beautiful as ever, was somehow troubled. What gave her away was her furrowed brow. "Natasha…you ok?" He started sitting up but she gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah," she choked out. "Bad dream. I'm ok, though. Go back to sleep." She forced a smile. He kept his eyes trained on her until she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. With that, he lay back down and fell asleep within minutes.

Flat on his stomach with his arms tucked under the pillow, she stared at him for what seemed like hours. She began to run her eyes up and down his body. His short brown hair tossed about; his sleeping expression both beautiful and rugged; the landscape of muscles carved into his body; the genuine concern he displayed for her.

She tore her gaze away from him, remembering the dream…the memory. She slowly got up from the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Gently, she closed the door and leaned against the back of it. The tile floor was cold under her feet. Her breathing began to accelerate. She shouldn't be having dreams like this. Not about that, not about him. He spared her that night. He may have banged her up a little bit, but he let her live. She never knew what it was that he saw in her, but she should have been dead. Instead of stabbing her with her own knife, he simply whispered her name.

He'd only heard rumors of the deadly Black Widow, but she was in his clutches. He could have, should have…but there she was. There _he _was. It'd been years since their first meeting took place. Neither of them were the same. _Does that mean he's actually liable to kill me now?_ She knew that was a stupid way to think. Years…years. All she knew for sure was that she owed him. The last two years that they'd been on the same team wasn't enough. The times that she'd had his back didn't scratch the surface. When he called in that debt, it would be more than she had to give. But she'd give it anyway; not because she owed him. But because she wanted to give it. It was more than a debt to be paid; it was both of their lives, now intertwined. To kill one would mean the death of the other.


End file.
